 Story five of the Magic World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Ruth Golding. The Magic World by E. Nesbit. Five. Septimus Septimuson. The wind was screaming over the marsh. It shook the shutters and rattled the windows, and the little boy lay awake in the bare attic. His mother came softly up the ladder stairs, shading the flame of the tallow candle with her hand. "'I'm not asleep, mother,' said he, and she heard the tears in his voice. "'Why silly lad,' she said, sitting down on the straw bed beside him, and putting the candle on the floor. "'What are you crying for?' "'It's the wind keeps calling me, mother,' he said. "'It won't let me alone. It never has since I put up the little weathercock for it to play with. It keeps saying, "'Wake up, Septimus Septimuson. Wake up. You're the seventh son of a seventh son. You can see the fairies and hear the beasts speak, and you must go out and seek your fortune. And I'm afraid, and I don't want to go.' "'I should think not indeed,' said his mother. "'The wind doesn't talk, Sept, not really. You just go to sleep like a good boy, and I'll get farther to bring you a gingerbread pig from the fair tomorrow. But Sept lay awake a long time, listening to what the wind really did keep on saying, and feeling ashamed to think how frightened he was of going out all alone to seek his fortune. A thing all the boys in books were only too happy to do. Next evening, father brought home the loveliest gingerbread pig with current eyes. Sept ate it, and it made him less anxious than ever to go out into the world, where, perhaps, no one would give him gingerbread pigs ever any more. Before he went to bed, he ran down to the shore where a great new harbour was being made. The workman had been blasting the big rocks, and on one of the rocks a lot of muscles were sticking. He stood looking at them, and then suddenly he heard a lot of little voices crying. "'Oh, Sept, they're joking!' The voices were thin and sharp as the edges of muscle shells. They were indeed the voices of the muscles themselves. "'Oh, dear,' said Sept, "'I'm so sorry, but I can't move the rock back into the sea, you know. Can I now?' "'No,' said the muscles. "'But if you speak to the wind's language, and he's very fond of you, since you made that toy for him, he'll blow the sea up till the waves wash us back into deep water.' "'But I'm afraid of the wind,' said Sept. "'It says things that frighten me.' "'Oh, very well,' said the muscles. "'We don't want you to be afraid. We can die all right, if necessary.' Then Sept shivered and trembled, said the thin, sharp voices. "'We'll die, but we'd rather die in our own brave company.' "'I know I'm a coward,' said Sept. "'Oh, wait a minute.' "'But wait,' said the little voices. "'I can't speak to the wind. I won't,' said Sept. And almost at the same moment he heard himself call out, "'Oh, wind, please come and blow up the waves to save the poor muscles.' The wind answered with a boisterous shout. "'All right, my boy,' it shrieked. "'I am coming,' and come it did. And when it had attended to the muscles, it came and whispered to Sept in his attic. And to his great surprise, instead of covering his head with the bed-clothes as usual and trying not to listen, he found himself sitting up in bed and talking to the wind, man to man. "'Why?' he said. "'I'm not afraid of you any more.' "'Of course not. We're friends now,' said the wind. "'That's because we joined together to do a kindness to someone. "'There's nothing like that for making people friends.' "'Oh,' said Sept. "'Yes,' said the wind. "'And now, old chap, when will you go out and seek your fortune? "'Remember how poor your father is. "'And the fortune, if you find it, won't be just for you, "'but for your father and mother and the others.' "'Oh,' said Sept. "'I didn't think of that.' "'Yes,' said the wind. "'Really, my dear fellow, I do hate to bother you, "'but it's better to fix the time. "'Now when shall we start?' "'We,' said Sept. "'Are you going with me?' "'I'll see you a bit of the way,' said the wind. "'What do you say now? Shall we start tonight? "'There's no time like the present.' "'I do hate going,' said Sept. "'Of course you do,' said the wind cordially. "'Come along. Get into your things and we'll make a beginning.' So Sept dressed, and he wrote on his slate in very big letters, "'Gone to seek our fortune,' and he put it on the table so that his mother should see it when she came down in the morning. And he went out of the cottage, and the wind kindly shut the door after him. The wind gently pushed him down to the shore, and there he got into his father's boat, which was called the Septimus and Susie after his father and mother, and the wind carried him across to another country, and there he landed. "'Now,' said the wind, clapping him on the back, "'off you go, and good luck to you.' And it turned round and took the boat home again. When Sept's mother found the writing on the slate and his father found the boat gone, they feared that Sept was drowned, but when the wind brought the boat back wrong way up, they were quite sure, and they both cried for many a long day. The wind tried to tell them that Sept was all right, but they couldn't understand wind-talk, and they only said, "'Drag the wind!' and fastened the shutters up tight and put wedges in the windows. Sept walked along the straight white road that led across the new country. He had no more idea how to look for his fortune than you would have, if you suddenly left off reading this and went out of your front door to seek yours. However, he had made a start, and that is always something. When he had gone exactly seven miles on that straight foreign road, between strange trees and bordered with flowers he did not know the names of, he heard a groaning in the wood, and someone sighing and saying, "'Oh, how hard it is to have to die, and never see my wife and the little cubs again!' The voice was rough as a lion's mane, and strong as a lion's claws, and Sept was very frightened, but he said, "'I'm not afraid!' and then, oddly enough, he found he had spoken the truth. He wasn't afraid. He broke through the bushes and found that the person who had spoken was indeed a lion. A javelin had pierced its shoulder and fastened it to a great tree. "'All right!' cried Sept, "'Hold still a minute, sir!' He got out his knife and cut and cut at the shaft of the javelin till he was able to break it off. Then the lion drew back, and the broken shaft passed through the wound, and the broken javelin was left sticking in the tree. "'I really extremely obliged, my dear fellow,' said the lion, warmly. "'Pray command me, if there's any little thing I can do for you at any time.' "'Don't mention it,' said Sept, with proper politeness. "'Delighted to have been of use to you, I'm sure.' So they parted. As Sept scrambled through the bushes back to the road, he kicked against an axe that lay on the ground. "'Hello!' said he. "'Some poor woodman's dropped this and not been able to find it. "'I'll take it along. Perhaps I may meet him.'" He was getting very tired and very hungry, and presently he sat down to rest under a chestnut tree, and he heard two little voices talking in the branches. Voices soft as a squirrel's fur and bright as a squirrel's eyes. They were, indeed, the voices of two squirrels. "'Harsh,' said one. "'There's someone below.' "'Oh!' said the other. "'It's a horrid boy. Let's scurry away.' "'I'm not a horrid boy,' said Sept. "'I'm the seventh son of a seventh son.' "'Oh!' said Mrs. Squirrel. "'Of course that makes all the difference. Have some nuts.' "'Rather,' said Sept. "'At least, I mean, yes, if you please.'" So the squirrels brought nuts down to him, and when he had eaten as many as he wanted, they filled his pockets, and then in return he chopped all the lower boughs off the chestnut tree, so that boys who were not seventh sons could not climb up and interfere with the squirrel's housekeeping arrangements. Then they parted the best of friends, and Sept went on. "'I haven't found my fortune yet,' said he. "'But I've made a friend or two.'" And just as he was saying that, he turned a corner of the road and met an old gentleman in a fur-lined coat, riding a fine, big gray horse. "'Hello,' said the gentleman. "'Who are you and where are you off to so bright and early?' "'I'm Septimus Septimuson,' said Sept. "'And I'm going to seek my fortune.'" "'And you've taken an axe to help you carve your way to glory?' "'No,' said Sept. "'I've found it, and I suppose someone lost it, so I'm bringing it along in case I meet him.' "'Heavy, isn't it?' said the old gentleman.' "'Yes,' said Sept. "'Then I'll carry it for you,' said the old gentleman, for it's one that my head-forrester lost yesterday. "'And now come along with me, for you're the boy I've been looking for for seven years, an honest boy, and the seventh son of a seventh son.'" So Sept went home with the gentleman, who was a great lord in that country, and he lived in that lord's castle, and was taught everything that a gentleman ought to know. And in return he told the lord all about the ways of birds and beasts, for, as he understood their talk, he knew more about them than anyone else in that country. And the lord wrote it all down in a book, and half the people said it was wonderfully clever, and the other half said it was nonsense, and how could he know? This was fame, and the lord was very pleased. But though the old lord was so famous, he would not leave his castle, for he had a hump that an enchanter had fastened on to him, and he couldn't bear to be seen with it. "'But y'all get rid of it for me some day, my boy,' he used to say. "'No one but the seventh son of a seventh son and an honest boy can do it,' so all the doctors say." So Sept grew up. And when he was twenty-one, straight as a lance and handsome as a picture, the old lord said to him, "'My boy, you've been like a son to me, but now it's time you got married and had sons of your own. Is there any girl you'd like to marry?' "'No,' said Sept, "'I never did care much for girls.'" The old lord laughed. "'Then you must set out again and seek your fortune once more,' he said, because no man has really found his fortune till he's found the lady who is his heart's lady. "'Choose the best horse in the stable, and off you go, lad, and my blessing go with you.'" So Sept chose a good red horse and set out, and he rode straight to the great city that shone golden across the plain, and when he got there he found everyone crying. "'Why, whatever is the matter,' said Sept, raining in the red horse in front of a smithy, where the apprentices were crying onto the fires and the smiths was dropping tears on the anvil. "'Why, the princess is dying,' said the black smith, blowing his nose. "'A nasty, wicked magician! He had a spite against the king, and he got at the princess when she was playing ball in the garden, and now she's blind and deaf and dumb, and she won't eat. "'And she'll die,' said the first apprentice. "'And she is such a dear,' said the other apprentice. Sept sat still on the red horse, thinking. "'Has anything been done?' he asked. "'Oh, yes,' said the black smith. "'All the doctors have seen her, but they can't do anything. And the king has advertised in the usual way that anyone who can cure her may marry her, but it's no good. King's sons aren't what they used to be. A silly lot they are nowadays, all taken up with football and cricket and golf.' "'Huh,' said Sept. "'Thank you. Which is the way to the palace?' The black smith pointed and then burst into tears again. Sept rode on. When he got to the palace he asked to see the king. Everyone there was crying, too, from the footman who opened the door to the king who was sitting upon his golden throne, and looking at his fine collection of butterflies through floods of tears. "'Oh, dear me, yes, young man,' said the king. "'You may see her, and welcome, but it's no good.' "'We can, but try,' said Sept. So he was taken to the room where the princess sat, huddled up on her silver throne among the white velvet cushions, with her crown all on one side, crying out of her poor, blind eyes, so that the tears ran down over her green gown with the red roses on it. And directly he saw her, he knew that she was the only girl, princess as she was, with a crown and a throne, who could ever be his heart's lady. He went up to her and kneeled at her side and took her hand and kissed it. The princess started, she could not see or hear him, but at the touch of his hand and his lips she knew that he was her heart's lord, and she threw her arms round his neck and cried more than ever. He held her in his arms and stroked her hair till she stopped crying, and then he called for bread and milk. This was brought in a silver basin, and he fed her with it as you feed a little child. The news ran through the city, the princess has eaten, and all the bells were set ringing. Cep said good night to his princess, and went to bed in the best bedroom of the palace. Early in the grey morning he got up and leaned out of the open window and called to his old friend the wind. And the wind came bustling in and clapped him on the back, crying, Well, my boy, and what can I do for you, eh? Cep told him all about the princess, said the wind. You've not done so badly. At any rate you've got her love, and you couldn't have got that with anybody's help but your own. Now, of course, the thing to do is to find the wicked magician. Of course, said Cep. Well, I travel a good deal. I'll keep my eyes open and let you know if I hear anything. Cep spent the day holding the princess's hand and feeding her at mealtimes. And that night the wind rattled his window and said, Let me in. It came in very noisily and said, Well, I found your magician. He's in the forest pretending to be a moam. How can I find him? said Cep. Haven't you any friends in the forest? asked the wind. Then Cep remembered his friends, the squirrels, and he mounted his horse and rode away to the chestnut tree where they lived. They were charmed to see him groaned so tall and strong and handsome. And when he had told them his story, they said at once, Oh, yes, delighted to be of any service to you. And they called to all their little brothers and cousins and uncles and nephews to search the forest for a mole that wasn't really a mole. And quite soon they found him and hustled and shoved him along till he was face to face with Cep in a green glade. The glade was green, but all the bushes and trees around were red brown with squirrel fur and shining bright with squirrel eyes. Then Cep said, Give the princess back her eyes and her hearing and her voice, but the mole would not. Give the princess back her eyes and her hearing and her voice, said Cep again, but the mole only gnashed his wicked teeth and snarled. And then in a minute the squirrels fell on the mole and killed it, and Cep thanked them and rode back to the palace, for of course he knew that when a magician is killed all his magic unworks itself instantly. But when he got to his princess she was still as deaf as a post and as dumb as a stone, and she was still crying bitterly with her poor blind eyes till the tears ran down her grass-green gown with the red roses on it. Cheer up, my sweet heart, he said, though he knew she couldn't hear him, and as he spoke the wind came in at the open window and spoke very softly, because it was in the presence of the princess. All right, it whispered. The old villain gave us the slip that journey got out of the moleskin in the very nick of time. He's a wild boar now. Come, said Cep, fingering his sword-hilt, I'll kill that myself without asking it any questions. So he went and fought it, but it was a most uncommon boar as big as a horse with tusks half a yard long, and although Cep wounded it, it jerked the sword out of his hand with its tusk, and was just going to trample him out of life with its hard, heavy pig's feet when a great roar sounded through the forest. Ah, would ye, said the lion, and fastened teeth and claws into the great boar's back. The boar turned with a scream of rage, but the lion had got a good grip, and it did not loosen teeth or claws till the boar lay quiet. Is he dead? asked Cep when he came to himself. Oh, yes, he's dead right enough, said the lion, but the wind came up puffing and blowing and said, It's no good. He's got away again, and now he's a fish. I was just a minute too late to see what fish. An old oyster told me about it, only he hadn't the wit to notice what particular fish the scoundrel changed into. So then Cep went back to the palace, and he said to the king, Let me marry the dear princess, and we'll go out and seek our fortune. I've got to kill that magician, and I'll do it too, or my name's not Septimus Septimuson. But it may take years and years, and I can't be away from the princess all that time, because she won't eat unless I feed her. You see the difficulty, Sire. The king saw it. And that very day Cep was married to the princess in her green gown with the red roses on it, and they set out together. The wind went with them, and the wind or something else seemed to say to Cep, Go home, take your wife home to your mother. So he did. He crossed the land, and he crossed the sea, and he went up the red brick path to his father's cottage. And he peeked in at the door and said, Father, mother, here's my wife. They were so pleased to see him, for they had thought him dead, that they didn't notice the princess at first. And when they did notice her they wondered at her beautiful face and her beautiful gown. But it wasn't till they had all settled down to supper, boiled rabbit it was, and they noticed Cep feeding his wife as one feeds a baby, that they saw that she was blind. And then all the story had to be told. Well, well, said the fisherman, you and your wife bide here with us. I daresay I'll catch that old sinner in my nets one of these fine days. But he never did. And Cep and his wife lived with the old people, and they were happy after a fashion. But of an evening Cep used to wander and wonder and wonder and wonder by the seashore, wondering as he wondered whether he wouldn't ever have the luck to catch that fish. And one evening, as he wondered, wondering, he heard a little sharp, thin voice say, Cep, I've got it! What? asked Cep, forgetting his manners. I've got it! said a big muscle on a rock close by him. The magic stone that the magician does his enchantments with. He dropped it out of his mouth and I shut my shells on it. And now he's sweeping up and down the sea like a mad fish looking for it. But he knows he can never change into anything else unless he gets it back. Here, take the nasty thing. It's making me feel quite ill. It opened its shells wide and Cep saw a pearl. He reached out his hand and took it. That's better! said the muscle, washing its shells out with salt water. Can I do magic with it? Cep eagerly asked. No! said the muscle sadly. It's of no use to anyone but the owner. Now, if I were you, I'd get into a boat and if your friend the wind will help us, I believe we really can do the trick. I'm at your service, of course! said the wind, getting up instantly. The muscle whispered to the wind who rushed off at once and Cep launched his boat. Now, said the muscle, you get into the very middle of the sea or as near as you can guess it. The wind will warn all the other fishes. As he spoke he disappeared in the dark waters. Cep got the boat into the middle of the sea as near as he could guess it and waited. After a long time he saw something swirling about in a sort of whirlpool about a hundred yards from his boat. But when he tried to move the boat towards it, her bows ran on to something hard. Keep still, Cep! cried thousands and thousands of sharp, thin little voices. Then he looked over the boat side and saw that the hard something was nothing but thousands and thousands of muscles all jammed close together. And through the clear water more and more were coming and piling themselves together. Almost at once his boat was slowly lifted the top of the muscle heap showed through the water and there he was high and dry on a muscle reef. And in all that part of the sea the water was disappearing and as far as the eye could reach stretched a great plain of purple and gray the shells of countless muscles. Only at one spot there was still a splashing. Then a muscle opened its shell and spoke. We've got him! it said. We've piled ourselves up till we filled this part of the sea. The wind warned all the good fishes and we've got the old traitor in a little pool over there. Get out and walk over our backs. We'll all lie sideways so as not to hurt you. You must catch the fish but whatever you do don't kill it till we give the word. Cep promised and he got out and walked over the muscles to the pool and when he saw the wicked soul of the magician looking out through the round eyes of a big finny fish he remembered all that his princess had suffered and he longed to draw his sword and kill the wicked thing then and there. But he remembered his promise. He threw a net about it and dragged it back to the boat. The muscles dispersed and let the boat down again into the water and he rode home towing the evil fish in the net by a line. He beached the boat and looked along the shore. The shore looked a very odd colour and well it might for every bit of the sand was covered with purple grey muscles. They had all come up out of the sea leaving just one little bit of real yellow sand for him to beach the boat on. Said millions of sharp, thin little voices. Cep drew his sword and waded into the shallow surf and killed the evil fish with one strong stroke. Then such a shout went up all along the shore as that shore had never heard and all along the shore where the muscles had been stood men in armour and men in smockfrocks and men in leather aprons and huntsman's coats and women and children a whole nation of people. Close by the boat stood a king and queen with crowns upon their heads. Thank you, Cep, said the king. You've saved us all. I and the king muscle doomed to be a muscle so long as that wretch lived. You have set us all free and look. Down the path from the shore came running his own princess who hung round his neck crying his name and looking at him with the most beautiful eyes in the world. Come, said the muscle king, we have no son. You shall be our son and reign after us. Thank you, said Cep, but this is my father and he presented the old fisherman to his majesty. Then let him come with us, said the king royally. He can help me reign or fish in the palace lake, whichever he prefers. Thank you, said Cep's father. I'll come and fish. Your mother too, said the muscle queen, kissing Cep's mother. Ah, said Cep's mother, you're a lady every inch. I'll go to the world's end with you. So they all went back by way of the foreign country where Cep had found his princess and they called on the old lord. He had lost his hump and they easily persuaded him to come with them. You can help me reign if you like or we have a nice book or two in the palace library, said the muscle king. Thank you, said the old lord. I'll come and be your librarian if I may. Raining isn't at all in my line. Then they went on to Cep's father-in-law and when he saw how happy they all were together he said, bless my beard, but I've half a mind to come with you. Come along, said the muscle king. You shall help me reign if you like or no thank you, said the other king very quickly. I've had enough of raining. My kingdom can buy a president and be a republic if it likes. I'm going to catch butterflies. And so he does, most happily, up to this very minute. And Cep and his dear princess are as happy as they deserve to be. Some people say we are all as happy as we deserve to be, but I am not sure. End of Story 5. Recording by Ruth Golding. Story 6 of The Magic World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ruth Golding. The Magic World by E. Nesbitt. 6. The White Cat. The White Cat lived at the back of a shelf at the darkest end of the inside attic, which was nearly dark all over. It had lived there for years, because one of its white china ears was chipped, so that it was no longer a possible ornament for the spare bedroom. T.V. found it at the climax of a wicked and glorious afternoon. He had been left alone. The servants were the only other people in the house. He had promised to be good. He had meant to be good, and he had not been. He had done everything you can think of. He had walked into the duck pond, and not a stitch of his clothes, but had had to be changed. He had climbed on a hay-rick and fallen off it, and had not broken his neck, which as Cook told him he richly deserved to do. He had found a mouse in the trap, and put it in the kitchen teapot, so that when Cook went to make tea it jumped out at her, and affected her to screams followed by tears. T.V. was sorry for this, of course, and said so like a man. He had only, he explained, meant to give her a little start. In the confusion that followed the mouse he had eaten all the black-current jam that was put out for kitchen tea, and for this too he apologised handsomely as soon as it was pointed out to him. He had broken a pane of the greenhouse with a stone, and, but why pursue the painful theme? The last thing he had done was to explore the attic where he was never allowed to go, and to knock down the white cat from its shelf. The sound of its fall brought the servants. The cat was not broken, only its other ear was chipped. T.V. was put to bed. But he got out as soon as the servants had gone downstairs, crept up to the attic, secured the cat, and washed it in the bath. So that when Mother came back from London, T.V. dancing impatiently at the head of the stairs in a very wet nightgown, flung himself upon her, and cried, I've been awfully naughty and I'm frightfully sorry, and please may I have the white cat for my very own. He was much sorryer than he had expected to be, when he saw that Mother was too tired even to want to know, as she generally did, exactly how naughty he had been. She only kissed him and said, I'm sorry you've been naughty, my darling. Go back to bed now. Good night. T.V. was ashamed to say anything more about the China cat, so he went back to bed. But he took the cat with him, and talked to it, and kissed it, and went to sleep with its smooth, shiny shoulder against his cheek. In the days that followed he was extravagantly good. Being good seemed as easy as being bad usually was. This may have been because Mother seemed so tired and ill, and gentlemen in black coats and high hats came to see Mother, and after they had gone she used to cry. These things going on in a house sometimes make people good, sometimes they act just the other way. Or it may have been because he had the China cat to talk to. Anyhow, whichever way it was, at the end of the week, Mother said, T.V., you've been a dear good boy, and a great comfort to me. You must have tried very hard to be good. It was difficult to say, no, I haven't, at least not since the first day. But T.V. got it said, and was hugged for his pains. You want it, said Mother, the China cat. Well, you may have it. For my very own! For your very own. But you must be very careful not to break it, and you mustn't give it away. It goes with the house. Your Aunt Jane made me promise to keep it in the family. It's very, very old. Don't take it out of doors for fear of accidents. I love the white cat, Mother, said T.V. I love it better than all my toys. Then Mother told T.V. several things. And that night, when he went to bed, T.V. repeated them all faithfully to the China cat, who was about six inches high, and looked very intelligent. So, you see, he ended. The wicked lawyers taken nearly all Mother's money, and we've got to leave our own lovely big white house, and go and live in a horrid little house, with another house glued onto its side. And Mother does hate it so. I don't wonder, said the China cat, very distinctly. What? said T.V. halfway into his night-shirt. I said, I don't wonder, Octavius, said the China cat, and rose from her sitting position, stretched her China legs, and waved her white China tail. You can speak, said T.V. Can't you see I can? Here I mean, said the cat. I belong to you now, so I can speak to you. I couldn't before. It wouldn't have been manners. T.V., his night-shirt round his neck, sat down on the edge of the bed, with his mouth open. Come, don't look so silly, said the cat, taking a walk along the high wooden mantelpiece. Anyone would think you didn't like me to talk to you. I love you too, said T.V., recovering himself a little. Well, then, said the cat. May I touch you? T.V. asked timidly. Of course, I belong to you. Look out! The China cat gathered herself together and jumped. T.V. caught her. It was quite a shock to find when one stroked her that the China cat, though alive, was still China, hard, cold and smooth to the touch, and yet perfectly brisk and absolutely bendable as any flesh-and-blood cat. Dear, dear White Pussy, said T.V., I do love you. And I love you, heard the cat. Otherwise I should never have lowered myself to begin a conversation. I wish you were a real cat, said T.V. I am, said the cat. Now, how shall we amuse ourselves? I suppose you don't care for sport. Mousing, I mean. I never tried, said T.V., and I think I rather wouldn't. Very well, then, Octavious, said the cat. I'll take you to the White Cat's castle. Get into bed. Bed makes a good travelling carriage. Especially when you haven't any other. Shut your eyes. T.V. did, as he was told, shut his eyes, but could not keep them shut. He opened them a tiny, tiny chink and sprang up. He was not in bed. He was on a couch of soft beast skin, and the couch stood in a splendid hall, whose walls were of gold and ivory. By him stood the White Cat, no longer China, but real, live cat, and fur as cat should be. Here we are, she said. The journey didn't take long, did it? Now we'll have that splendid supper out of the fairy tale, with the invisible hands waiting on us. She clapped her paws, paws now as soft as white velvet, and a tablecloth floated into the room, then knives and forks and spoons and glasses. The table was laid, the dishes drifted in, and they began to eat. There happened to be every single thing T.V. liked best to eat. After supper there was music and singing, and T.V., having kissed a white, soft, furry forehead, went to bed in a gold fore-poster with a counter-pane of butterflies' wings. He awoke at home. On the mantrapiece sat the White Cat, looking as though Butter would not melt in her mouth, and all her furriness had gone with her voice. She was silent and China. T.V. spoke to her, but she would not answer, nor did she speak all day. Only at night, when he was getting into bed, she suddenly mewed, stretched, and said, Make haste. There's a play acted to-night at my castle. T.V. made haste, and was rewarded by another glorious evening in the castle of the White Cat. And so the weeks went on, days full of an ordinary little boy's joys and sorrows, goodnesses and badnesses. Nights spent by a little prince in the magic castle of the White Cat. Then came the day when T.V.'s mother spoke to him, and he, very scared and serious, told the China Cat what she had said. I knew this would happen, said the Cat. It always does. So you're to leave your house next week. Well, there's only one way out of the difficulty. Draw your sword, T.V., and cut off my head and tail. And then will you turn into a princess and shall I have to marry you? T.V. asked with horror. No, dear, no, said the Cat reassuringly. I shan't turn into anything, but you and mother will turn into happy people. I shall just not be any more for you. Then I won't do it, said T.V. but you must come draw your sword like a brave fairy prince and cut off my head. The sword hung above his bed with the helmet and breastplate Uncle James had given him last Christmas. I'm not a fairy prince, said the child. I'm T.V. and I love you. You'll love your mother better, said the Cat. Come cut my head off. The story always ends like that. You love mother best. It's for her sake. Yes, T.V. was trying to think it out. Yes, I love mother best, but I love you. And I won't cut off your head, no, not even for mother. Then, said the Cat, I must do what I can. She stood up waving her white china tail, and before T.V. could stop her she had leapt not as before into his arms, but onto the wide hearthstone. It was all over. The china cat lay broken inside the high brass fender. The sound of the smash brought mother running. What is it? she cried. Oh, T.V., the china cat. She would do it, sobbed T.V. She wanted me to cut off her head and I wouldn't. Don't talk nonsense, dear, said mother sadly. That only makes it worse. Pick up the pieces. There's only two pieces, said T.V. Couldn't you stick her together again? Why? said mother, holding the pieces close to the candle. She's been broken before, and mended. I knew that, said T.V., still sobbing. Oh, my dear white cat! Oh, oh, oh! The last oh was a howl of anguish. Come, crying won't meant her. Said mother. Look, there's another piece of her close to the shovel. T.V. stooped. That's not a piece of cat, he said, and picked it up. It was a pale parchment label tied to a key. Mother held it to the candle and read, Key of the lock behind the knot in the mantelpiece panel in the white parlour. T.V., I wonder, but where did it come from? Out of my white cat, I suppose, said T.V., his tears stopping. Are you going to see what's in the mantelpiece panel, mother? Are you? Oh, do let me come and see too. You don't deserve, mother began, and ended. Well, put your dressing gown on then. They went down the gallery past the pictures and the stuffed birds and tables with china on them, and downstairs on to the white parlour. But they could not see any knot in the mantelpiece panel, because it was all painted white. But mother's fingers felt softly all over it, and found a round raised spot. It was a knot, sure enough. Then she scraped round it with her scissors till she loosened the knot, and poked it out with the scissors point. I don't suppose there's any keyhole there, really, she said. But there was. And what is more, the key fitted. The panel swung open, and inside was a little cupboard with two shelves. What was on the shelves? There were old laces and old embroideries, old jewellery, and old silver. There was money, and there were dusty old papers that T.V. thought most uninteresting. But mother did not think them uninteresting. She laughed, and cried, or nearly cried, and said, Oh, T.V., this was why the china cat was to be taken such care of. Then she told him how, a hundred and fifty years before, the head of the house had gone out to fight for the pretender, and had told his daughter to take the greatest care of the china cat. I will send you word of the reason by a sure hand, he said, for they parted on the open square where any spy might have overheard anything. And he had been killed by an ambush not ten miles from home, and his daughter had never known. But she had kept the cat. And now it has saved us, said mother. We can stay in the dear old house, and there are two other houses that will belong to us too, I think. And oh, T.V., would you like some pound cake and ginger wine, dear? T.V. did like, and had it. The china cat was mended, but it was put in the glass-fronted corner covered in the drawing-room, because it had saved the house. Now I dare say you'll think this is all nonsense and a made-up story, not at all. If it were, how would you account for T.V.'s finding the very next night, fast asleep on his pillow, his own white cat, the furry friend that the china cat used to turn into every evening, the dear hostess who had amused him so well in the white cat's fairy palace? It was she beyond a doubt, and that was why T.V. didn't mind a bit about the china cat being taken from him and kept under glass. You may think that it was just any old stray white cat that had come in by accident. T.V. knows better. It has the very same tender tone in its purr that the magic white cat had. It will not talk to T.V. it is true, but T.V. can and does talk to it. But the thing that makes it perfectly certain that it is the white cat is that the tips of it to ears are missing, just as the china cat's ears were. If you say that it might have lost its ear tips in battle, you are the kind of person who always makes difficulties, and you may be quite sure that the kind of splendid magics that happened to T.V. will never happen to you. End of Story 6 Recording by Ruth Golding Story 7 of the Magic World This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ruth Golding The Magic World by E. Nesbit 7. Belinda and Bellamore or The Bells of Carillonland There is a certain country where a king is never allowed to reign while a queen can be found. They like queens much better than kings in that country. I can't think why. If someone has tried to teach you a little history, you will perhaps think that this is the Salic Law. But it isn't. In the biggest city of that odd country, there is a great bell tower, higher than the clock tower of the Houses of Parliament where they put MPs who forget their manners. This bell tower had seven bells in it, very sweet toned, splendid bells, made expressly to ring on the joyful occasions when a princess was born who would be queen some day. And the great tower was built expressly for the bells to ring in. So you see what a lot they thought of queens in that country. Now in all the bells there are bell people. It is their voices that you hear when the bells ring. All that about its being the clapper of the bell is mere nonsense and would hardly deceive a child. I don't know why people say such things. Most bell people are very energetic, busy folk who love the sound of their own voices and hate being idle. And when nearly two hundred years had gone by and no princesses had been born, they got tired of living in bells that were never rung. So they slipped out of the bell-free one fine frosty night and left the big beautiful bells empty and went off to find other homes. One of them went to live in a dinner bell, and one in a school bell. And the rest all found homes. They did not mind where, just anywhere in fact, where they could find any bell person kind enough to give them board and lodging. And everyone was surprised at the increased loudness in the voices of these hospitable bells. For, of course, the bell people from the bell-free did their best to help in the housework, as polite guests should, and always added their voices to those of their hosts, on all occasions when bell talk was called for. And the seven big beautiful bells in the bell-free were left hollow and dark and quite empty, except for the clappers who did not care about the comforts of a home. Now, of course, a good house does not remain empty long, especially when there is no rent to pay. And in a very short time the seven bells all had tenants, and they were all the kind of folk that no respectable bell people would care to be acquainted with. They had been turned out of other bells, cracked bells and broken bells, the bells of horses that had been lost in snowstorms, or of ships that had gone down at sea. They hated work, and they were a glum, silent, disagreeable people. But as far as they could be pleased about anything, they were pleased to live in bells that were never rung in houses where there was nothing to do. They sat hunched up under the black domes of their houses, dressed in darkness and cobwebs, and their only pleasure was idleness, their only feasts, the thick, dusty silence that lies heavy in all bell-free's where the bells never ring. They hardly ever spoke even to each other, and in the whispers that good bell people talk in among themselves, and that no one can hear but the bat, whose ear for music is very fine, and who has himself a particularly high voice. And when they did speak, they quarrelled. And when at last the bells were rung for the birth of a princess, the wicked bell people were furious. Of course they had to ring. A bell can't help that when the rope is pulled, but their voices were so ugly that people were quite shocked. What poor taste our ancestors must have had, they said, to think these were good bells. You remember the bells had not rung for nearly two hundred years. Dear me, said the king to the queen, what odd ideas people had in the old days. I always understood that these bells had beautiful voices. They're quite hideous, said the queen, and so they were. Now that night the lazy bell folk came down out of the bell-free, full of anger against the princess, whose birth had disturbed their idleness. There is no anger like that of a lazy person who is made to work against his will. And they crept out of the dark domes of their houses and came down in their dust dresses and cobweb cloaks, and crept up to the palace where everyone had gone to bed long before, and stood round the mother of Pearl Cradle, where the baby princess lay asleep. And they reached their seven dark right hands out across the white satin coverlet, and the oldest and hoarsest and laziest said, She shall grow uglier every day except Sundays. And every Sunday she shall be seven times prettier than the Sunday before. Why not uglier every day and a double dose on Sunday? asked the youngest and spitefulest of the wicked bell people. Because there's no rule without an exception, said the oldest and hoarsest and laziest, and she'll feel it all the more if she's pretty once a week. And, he added, this shall go on till she finds a bell that doesn't ring and can't ring, and never will ring, and wasn't made to ring. Why not forever? asked the young and spiteful. Nothing goes on forever, said the oldest bell person, not even ill luck, and will have to leave her away out. It doesn't matter, she'll never know what it is, let alone finding it. Then they went back to the belfry and rearranged, as well as they could, the comfortable web and owl's nest furniture of their houses, which had all been shaken up and disarranged by that absurd ringing of bells at the birth of a princess that nobody could really be pleased about. When the princess was two weeks old, the king said to the queen, my love, the princess is not so handsome as I thought she was. Nonsense, Henry, said the queen, the light's not good, that's all. Next day, it was Sunday, the king pulled back the lace curtains of the cradle and said, the light's good enough now, and you see she's— he stopped. It must have been the light, he said. She looks all right today. Of course she does, a precious, said the queen. But on Monday morning his majesty was quite sure, really, that the princess was rather plain for a princess. And when Sunday came, and the princess had on her best robe and the cap with the little white ribbons in the frill, he rubbed his nose and said there was no doubt dress did make a great deal of difference, for the princess was now as pretty as a new daisy. The princess was several years old before her mother could be got to see that it really was better for the child to wear plain clothes and a veil on weekdays. On Sundays, of course, she could wear her best frock and a clean crown, just like anybody else. Of course, nobody ever told the princess how ugly she was. She wore a veil on weekdays and so did everyone else in the palace, and she was never allowed to look in the glass, except on Sundays, so that she had no idea that she was not as pretty all the week as she was on the first day of it. She grew up, therefore, quite contented, but the parents were in despair. Because, said King Henry, it's high time she was married. We ought to choose a king to rule the realm. I have always looked forward to her marrying at twenty-one, and to our retiring on a modest competence, to some nice little place in the country, where we could have a few pigs. And a cow, said the queen, wiping her eyes. And a pony and trap, said the king. And hens, said the queen. Yes, and now it can never, never be. Look at the child. I just ask you, look at her. No, said the king firmly. I haven't done that since she was ten, except on Sundays. Couldn't we get a prince to agree to a Sundays-only marriage, not let him see her during the week? Such an unusual arrangement, said the king, would involve very awkward explanations. And I can't think of any except the true ones, which would be quite impossible to give. You see, we should want a first-class prince, and no really high-toned highness would take a wife on those terms. It's a thoroughly comfortable kingdom, said the queen doubtfully. The young man would be handsomely provided for, for life. I couldn't marry Belinda to a time-server or a place-worshipper, said the king, decidedly. Meanwhile, the princess had taken the matter into her own hands. She had fallen in love. You know, of course, that a handsome book is sent out every year to all the kings who have daughters to marry. It is rather like the Illustrated Catalogues of Liberties or Peter Robinson's. Only instead of illustrations showing furniture or ladies' cloaks and dresses, the pictures are all of princes who are of an age to be married, and are looking out for suitable wives. The book is called the Royal Match Catalog Illustrated, and besides the pictures of the princes it has little printed bits about their incomes, accomplishments, prospects, and tempers, and relations. Now, the princess saw this book, which is never shown to princesses, but only to their parents. It was carelessly left lying on the round table in the parlour. She looked all through it, and she hated each prince more than the one before, till she came to the very end, and on the last page of all, screwed away in a corner, was the picture of a prince who was quite as good looking as a prince has any call to be. I like you, said Belinda softly. Then she read the little bit of print underneath. Prince Bellamon, aged twenty-four, wants princess who doesn't object to a christening curse. Nature of curse only revealed in the strictest confidence. Good tempered, comfortably off, quiet habits, no relations. Poor dear, said the princess. I wonder what the curse is. I'm sure I shouldn't mind. The blue dusk of evening was deepening in the garden outside. The princess rang for the lamp and went to draw the curtain. There was a rustle and a faint high squeak, and something black flopped onto the floor and fluttered there. Oh, it's a bat! cried the princess as the lamp came in. I don't like bats. Let me fetch a dustpan and brush and sweep the nasty thing away, said the parlor maid. No, no, said Belinda. It's hurt, poor dear. And though she hated bats, she picked it up. It was horribly cold to touch. One wing dragged loosely. You can go, Jane, said the princess to the parlor maid. Then she got a big velvet-covered box that had had chocolate in it, and put some cotton wool in it, and said to the bat, You poor dear, is that comfortable? And the bat said, Quite thanks. Good gracious, said the princess, jumping. I didn't know bats could talk. Everyone can talk, said the bat, but not everyone can hear other people talking. You have a fine ear as well as a fine heart. Will your wing ever get well, asked the princess. I hope so, said the bat, But let's talk about you. Do you know why you were a veil every day except some days? Doesn't everybody, asked Belinda. Only here in the palace, said the bat. That's on your account. But why, asked the princess. Look in the glass and you'll know. But it's wicked to look in the glass except on Sundays. And besides, they are all put away, said the princess. If I were you, said the bat, I should go up into the attic where the youngest kitchen maid sleeps. Feel between the thatch and the wall just above her pillow, and you'll find a little round-looking glass. But come back here before you look at it. The princess did exactly what the bat told her to do. And when she had come back into the parlour and shut the door, she looked in the little round glass that the youngest kitchen maid's sweetheart had given her. And when she saw her ugly, ugly, ugly face. For you must remember, she had been growing uglier every day since she was born. She screamed. And then she said, That's not me. It's a horrid picture. It is you, though, said the bat, firmly but kindly. And now you see why you wear a veil all the week. And only look in the glass on Sunday. But why? asked the princess in tears. Why don't I look like that in the Sunday-looking glasses? Because you aren't like that on Sundays, the bat replied. Come, it went on. Stop crying. I didn't tell you the dread secret of your ugliness. Just to make you cry. But because I know the way for you to be as pretty all the week as you are on Sundays. And since you've been so kind to me, I'll tell you. Sit down close beside me. It fatigues me to speak loud. The princess did, and listened through her veil and her tears while the bat told her all that I began this story by telling you. My great, great, great, great grandfather heard the tale years ago, he said, Up in the dark, dusty, beautiful, comfortable cobwebby bell-free. And I have heard scraps of it myself. When the evil bell people were quarrelling or talking in their sleep, lazy things. It's very good of you to tell me all this, said Belinda. But what am I to do? You must find the bell that doesn't ring and can't ring, and never will ring, and wasn't made to ring. If I were a prince, said the princess, I could go out and seek my fortune. Princesses have fortunes as well as princes, said the bat. But father and mother would never let me go and look for mine. Think, said the bat, perhaps you'll find a way. So Belinda thought and thought. And at last she got the book that had the portraits of eligible princes in it, and she wrote to the prince who had the christening curse. And this is what she said. Princess Belinda of Carioland is not afraid of christening curses. If Prince Bellamore would like to marry her, he had better apply to her royal father in the usual way. P.S. I have seen your portrait. When the prince got this letter he was very pleased, and wrote it once for Princess Belinda's likeness. Of course, they sent him a picture of her Sunday face, which was the most beautiful face in the world. As soon as he saw it, he knew that this was not only the most beautiful face in the world, but the dearest. So he wrote to her father by the next post, applying for her hand in the usual way, and enclosing the most respectable references. The king told the princess. Come, said he, what do you say to this young man? And the princess of course said, yes, please. So the wedding day was fixed for the first Sunday in June. But when the prince arrived, with all his glorious following of courtiers and men at arms, with two pink peacocks and a crown case full of diamonds for his bride, he absolutely refused to be married on a Sunday. Nor would he give any reason for his refusal. And then the king lost his temper and broke off the match, and the prince went away. But he did not go very far. That night he bribed a page boy to show him which was the princess's room, and he climbed up by the jasmine through the dark rose-centred night and tapped at the window. Who's there? said the princess inside in the dark. Me, said the prince in the dark outside. Then it wasn't true, said the princess. They told me you'd rid it away. What a cold you've got, my princess, said the prince, hanging on by the jasmine boughs. It's not a cold, sniffed the princess. Then, oh, you dear, were you crying because you thought I'd gone? He said. I suppose so, said she. He said, you dear, again, and kissed her hands. Why wouldn't you be married on a Sunday? She asked. It's the curse, dearest, he explained. I couldn't tell anyone but you. The fact is, Malevala wasn't asked to my christening, so she doomed me to be. Well, she said moderately good-looking all the week and too ugly for words on Sundays. So, you see, you will be married on a weekday, won't you? But I can't, said the princess, because I've got a curse too. Only I'm ugly all the week and pretty on Sundays. How extremely tiresome, said the prince, but can't you be cured? Oh, yes, said the princess and told him how. And you, she asked, is yours quite incurable? Not at all, he answered. I've only got to stay under water for five minutes and the spell will be broken. But you see, beloved, the difficulty is that I can't do it. I've practiced regularly from a boy in the sea and in the swimming bath, and even in my wash-hand basin, hours at a time, I've practiced, but I never can keep under more than two minutes. Oh, dear, said the princess, this is dreadful. It is rather trying, the prince answered. You're sure you like me, she asked suddenly. Now you know that I'm only pretty once a week. I'd die for you, said he. Then I'll tell you what, send all your courtiers away and take a situation as under-gardener here. I know we want one. And then every night I'll climb down the Jasmine and we'll go out together and seek our fortune. I'm sure we shall find it. And they did go out the very next night, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next. And they did not find their fortunes, but they got fonder and fonder of each other. They could not see each other's faces, but they held hands as they went along through the dark. And on the seventh night, as they passed by a house that showed chinks of light through its shutters, they heard a bell being rung outside for supper, a bell with a very loud and beautiful voice. But instead of saying, supper's ready, as any one would have expected, the bell was saying, Ding dong del, I could tell, Where you ought to go to break the spell. Then someone left off ringing the bell, so of course it couldn't say any more. So the two went on. A little way down the road, a cowbell tinkled behind the wet hedge of the lane, and it said not, Here I am quite safe, as a cowbell should, but Ding dong del, all will be well, if you. Then the cow stopped walking and began to eat, so the bell couldn't say any more. The prince and princess went on, and you will not be surprised to hear that they heard the voices of five more bells that night. The next was a school bell. The schoolmaster's little boy thought it would be fun to ring it very late at night, but his father came and caught him before the bell could say any more than, Ding dong del, you can break up the spell, by taking. So that was no good. Then there were the three bells that were the sign over the door of an inn, where people were happily dancing to a fiddle because there was a wedding. These bells said, We are the merry three bells, bells, bells, You are two, two unto spells, spells, spells. Then the wind, who was swinging the bells, suddenly thought of an appointment he had made with a pine forest to get up an entertaining imitation of sea waves, for the benefit of the forest nymphs who had never been to the seaside, and he went off, so of course the bells couldn't ring any more, and the prince and princess went on down the dark road. There was a cottage, and the princess pulled her veil closely over her face, for yellow light streamed from its open door, and it was a Wednesday. Inside a little boy was sitting on the floor, quite a little boy, he ought to have been in bed long before, and I don't know why he wasn't, and he was ringing a little tinkling bell that had dropped off a sleigh. And this little bell said, Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, I'm a little sleigh bell, but I know what I know, and I'll tell, tell, tell, find the enchanter of the ringing well, he will show you how to break the spell, spell, spell, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, I'm a little sleigh bell, but I know what I know. And so on, over and over again and again, because the little boy was quite contented to go on shaking his sleigh bell for ever and ever, so now we know, said the prince, isn't that glorious? Yes, very, but where's the enchanter of the ringing well? said the princess doubtfully. Oh, I've got his address in my pocket-book, said the prince, he's my godfather, he was one of the references I gave your father. So the next night the prince brought a horse to the garden, and he and the princess mounted, and rode, and rode, and rode, and in the grey dawn they came to Wonderwood, and in the very middle of that the magician's palace stands. The princess did not like to call on a perfect stranger so very early in the morning, so they decided to wait a little and look about them. The castle was very beautiful, decorated with a conventional design of bells and bell ropes carved in white stone. Luxuriant plants of American bellvine covered the drawbridge and portcullis. On a green lawn in front of the castle was a well with a curious bell-shaped covering suspended over it. The lovers leaned over the mossy fern-grown wall of the well, and looking down they could see that the narrowness of the well only lasted for a few feet, and below that it spread into a cavern where water lay in a big pool. Watch here! said a pleasant voice behind them. It was the enchanter, an early riser, like Darwin was, and all other great scientific men. They told him watch here. But Prince Bellamore ended. It's really no use. I can't keep underwater more than two minutes, however much I try, and my precious Belinda's not likely to find any silly old bell that doesn't ring and can't ring and never will ring and was never made to ring. Hell, hell! laughed the enchanter with the soft, full laughter of old age. You've come to the right shop. Who told you? The bells, said Belinda. Ah, yes. The old man frowned kindly upon them. You must be very fond of each other. We are, said the two together. Yes, the enchanter answered, because only true lovers can hear the true speech of the bells, and then only when they're together. Well, there's the bell. He pointed to the covering of the well, went forward, and touched some lever or spring. The covering swung out from above the well, and hung over the grass gray with the dew of dawn. That, said Belamore. That, said his godfather, it doesn't ring and it can't ring, and it never will ring, and it was never made to ring. Get into it. Eh? said Belamore, forgetting his manners. The old man took a hand of each and led them under the bell. They looked up. It had windows of thick glass, and high seats about four feet from its edge running all round inside. Take your seats, said the enchanter. Belamore lifted his princess to the bench, and leapt up beside her. Now, said the old man, sit still, hold each other's hands, and for your lives don't move. He went away, and next moment they felt the bell swing in the air. It swung round till once more it was over the well, and then it went down, down, down. I'm not afraid with you, said Belinda, because she was dreadfully. Down went the bell. The glass windows leapt into light. Looking through them the two could see blurred glories of lamps in the side of the cave. Magic lamps, or perhaps merely electric, which curiously enough have ceased to seem magic to us nowadays. Then, with a plop, the lower edge of the bell met the water. The water rose inside it a little, then not any more, and the bell went down, down, and above their heads, the green water lapped against the windows of the bell. You're underwater. If we stay five minutes, Belinda whispered. Yes, dear, said Belamo, and pulled out his ruby-studded chronometer. It's five minutes for you, but oh, cried Belinda, it's now for me. For I found the bell that doesn't ring and can't ring, and never will ring, and wasn't made to ring. Oh, Belamo, dearest, it's Thursday. Have I got my Sunday face? She tore away her veil, and his eyes, fixed upon her face, could not leave it. Oh, dream of all the world's delight, he murmured. How beautiful you are! Neither spoke again till a sudden little shock told them that the bell was moving up again. Nonsense, said Belamo. It's not five minutes. But when they looked at the ruby-studded chronometer, it was nearly three quarters of an hour. But then, of course, the well was enchanted. Magic, nonsense, said the old man when they hung about him with thanks and pretty words. It's only a diving bell, my own invention. So they went home and were married, and the princess did not wear a veil at the wedding. She said she had had enough veils to last her time. And a year and a day after that a little daughter was born to them. Now, sweetheart, said King Belamo, he was king now because the old king and queen had retired from the business and were keeping pigs and hens in the country as they had always planned to do. Dear sweetheart and life's love, I'm going to ring the bells with my own hands to show how glad I am for you and for the child and for our good life together. So he went out. It was very dark because the baby princess had chosen to be born at midnight. The king went out to the belfry that stood in the great, bare, quiet moonlit square, and he opened the door. The furry pussy bell ropes like huge caterpillars hung on the first loft. The king began to climb the curly, whirly stone stair, and as he went up he heard a noise, the strangest noises, stamping and rustling and deep breathings. He stood still in the ringer's loft, where the pussy-furry caterpillary bell ropes hung, and from the belfry above he heard the noise of strong fighting, and mixed with it the sound of voices angry and desperate, but with a noble note that thrilled the soul of the hearer like the sound of the trumpet in battle. And the voices cried, Down, down, away, away, when good has come, he'll may not stay. Out, out, into the night, the belfry bells are ours by right. And the words broke and joined again, like water when it flows against the piers of a bridge. Down, down, he'll may not stay, good has come, away, away. And the joining came like the sound of the river that flows free again. Out, out, into the night, the belfry bells are ours by right. And then as King Bellamon stood there, thrilled, and yet, as it were, turned to stone by the magic of this conflict that raged above him, there came a sweeping rush down the belfry ladder. The lantern he carried showed him a rout of little dark evil people, clothed in dust and cobwebs, that scurried down the wooden steps, gnashing their teeth and growling in the bitterness of a deserved defeat. They passed, and there was silence. Then the King flew from rope to rope, pulling lustily, and from above the bells answered in their own clear, beautiful voices, because the good bell folk had driven out the usurpers, and had come to their own again. Ring a ring a ring a ring a ring, ring bell, a little baby comes on us to dwell, ring bell, sound bell, sound swell, ring for joy and wish her well. May her life tell no tale of ill-spell, ring bell, joy bell, love bell, ring. But I don't see, said King Bellamon, when he had told Queen Belinda all about it, how it was that I came to hear them. The enchanter of the ringing well said that only lovers could hear what the bells had to say, and then only when they were together. You silly dear boy, said Queen Belinda, cuddling the baby princess close under her chin. We are lovers, aren't we? And you don't suppose I wasn't with you when you went to ring the bells for our baby? My heart and soul, anyway, all of me that matters. Yes, said the King, of course you were, that account.